


A Gentleman of Significance:A Red Pants Origin Story

by SherlocksSister



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John's Red Pants, Johnaconda, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Red Pants, Season/Series 01, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, Sherlock's suit, Suit Porn, Waistcoat porn, how is that not a tag already?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-14 17:21:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20604473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlocksSister/pseuds/SherlocksSister
Summary: Have you ever wondered how John came to own his much loved red pants? Well, this is just one version.“There is very much a move now for gentlemen to consider the appropriate undergarments to show off their suit to its best. The correct foundation affects how a jacket sits,” he raised an eyebrow at John, “how the trousers fit and drape, providing emphasis to our best features.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Red Pants Prompt 'Tailor Shop' If you would like to join in, go to @RedPantsMonday on Twitter.
> 
> Huge thanks to Sussexbound and MissDavis for their beta help.

John stood, arms raised away from the sides of his body and gave a slow twirl. As he moved, a piece of his left sleeve flapped down and gravity worked its magic on the single thread attaching the scrap to the rest of John’s suit. He watched Sherlock following the fabric’s descent, its creation of a charcoal grey puddle on the rug, and the struggle on his face not to laugh. John sniffed.

“John, I had no way…”

“ ‘Wear your best suit’, he says, ‘it’ll be fine’, he says.” John glowered at Sherlock.

“Again, there were no indications that there was…. Oh, John, you need to turn around!” Sherlock took John by the shoulder, spinning him so he could reach John’s back, and landed a sound slap on John’s arse,

“Oi! Mate, now you’re taking the fucking piss!”

“You were smouldering, John. My apologies. Indeed, I believe apologies may be in order all round." Sherlock nodded at what remained of John’s suit; the full right sleeve was missing, as was the left shoulder, most of the bottom half of the jacket and a large proportion of the bottom half of both legs. 

“You think?” John sighed. 

An apology was such a rare thing from Sherlock and, for once, this was not his fault. If John had not insisted on entering the room first, Sherlock’s coat would have been on the receiving end, instead. Who could possibly predict a door booby trapped with a miniature flame thrower inside a school? Sherlock’s quick thinking had saved John from getting burned and his suit had borne the brunt. Problem was, this was his only suit, bought just six weeks previously on his discharge to wear at job interviews. It didn’t matter that it had been a cheap, off-the-peg suit from a department store, it had still taken a big dollop of his money at the time. He would need to get a new one. John sighed again. 

“Agreed.” By now, John was growing used to the mind reading thing. Sherlock dipped into the kitchen, returning with a black bin bag. He handed it to John. “I didn’t like it anyway. You can go to my tailors. You need a decent suit if we are to continue working together.”

John peeled off the remains of his jacket and stuffed it into the bin liner. “Nah, you’re alright. I’ll get one from M&S or somewhere.”

“I insist!” Sherlock’s nose had wrinkled slightly at the mention of M&S. “It’s the least I can do, under the circumstances.”

Not having the energy to argue any further, John retreated to his room to remove the remains of his suit, dumping the forlorn connection to his previous life out on the landing.

A week later, and as promised, John had an appointment with Messrs Jacob and Michael Lindon. Sherlock had offered to come with him, but John declined, making a snide comment about wanting to get a suit he could wear and still be able to digest his food. In truth, he had been nervous of making a fool of himself in front of the posh twat. John had never had a made-to-measure suit before and wasn’t entirely sure of the process. He would rather not display his ignorance for Sherlock’s likely entertainment and ridicule. 

The shop was a short walk from the Bond Street Tube station, itself only one stop down the Jubilee Line. The outside was traditional, windows frosted and etched with the proprietor’s names one side of the door and ‘Gentlemen’s Outfitter’ on the other side. A burgundy blind filled the top half of the window and the polished wooden door opened with the ring of a real metal bell, not an electronic facsimile. 

John had expected the interior to be as conventional as the entrance and, in some ways, it was; wooden shelves gleamed with silken ties, glass-fronted cabinets displayed everything from braces to cufflinks. However, this was offset by full-size, solid glass mannequins displaying sharply fitted suits. The entire back of the shop was a rainbow of shirts suspended on hangers from steel wires, criss-crossing each other. A glass and chrome spiral staircase led up from one corner of the room.

“Good morning, Dr. Watson,” greeted a man in his sixties. “I am Jacob Lindon. Mr. Holmes said you would be joining us today. I'm led to believe that you are in need of a new suit and accessories.”

“Oh, no, just a suit.” John smiled.

“Ah, that must be my misunderstanding. When he telephoned, Mr. Holmes was quite insistent that we also fit you out with shirts and ties.” 

John inwardly rolled his eyes. Of course Sherlock was trying to overhaul his entire image. Maybe he should have a little fun at Sherlock’s expense. “Did he now. We’ll see. Maybe we should just start with the suit and see how we get on.”

“Yes, indeed,” acquiesced Jacob Lindon. “If you would excuse me, Michael shall be conducting your fitting today. I have an order to place. Please, take a few moments to consider your fabric choice and he will be with you presently.”

John turned to the display cabinet the older man had indicated. He briefly toyed with the idea of having the suit made in the Watson tartan, just to piss off Sherlock, but his eye was soon caught by the beautiful, soft sheens of the silk blends and the subtle colour changes in the wool options.

John had spent his childhood in hand-me-downs and cheap jeans from C&A or Top Man. He had spent his entire twenties alternating from scrubs to army uniform and the only set of decent clothes he had ever taken pride in had been his dress uniform. He felt like he was shedding the drab, grey skin of his former existence and that this new suit was the tangible proof of how much his life has changed since meeting Sherlock.

A quiet cough derailed John's ponderings. He turned, expecting a second older gentleman, but came face to chin with a much younger man, possibly only in his late twenties or early thirties. He wore an immaculate suit of royal blue matched with a paler blue shirt and red tie. A sharply trimmed beard accentuated his jawline, mostly blond but shot through with the occasional red. John wished he had brought Sherlock after all; this guy was even more intimidating.

"Hi, I'm Michael. I know, I know, you were expecting someone older, I get that all the time. I'm Jacob's nephew." Michael's hand engulfed John's as he shook it with enthusiasm. "I understand you are a friend of Mr. Holmes the Junior." Michael beamed. "Such a lovely man, and one of our most loyal customers." 

John was confused. He had never heard anyone describe either Holmes brother as 'lovely'. Michael leaned in seeing John's frown. "Sherlock and I are old friends. Some people never look beyond the surface, do they? Their loss, I always say."

John was momentarily flabbergasted, and grateful for Michael's subtle steer towards the bottom of the staircase. "Up we pop, Dr. Watson, the measuring room is at the top of the stairs."

"John. I mean, please, call me John."

He was rewarded with another blinding grin. "John, it is."

Not long into the measuring process, John was rather enjoying himself. As Michael systematically took his measurements, they chatted about the footie and the weather.

"Hmm, broad shoulders compared to your waist, we'll have to make sure we emphasise that tapering," Michael noted. An image of Sherlock came to John, long and lean in his own suit. In the few weeks since they had first met, he had rarely seen Sherlock in the same suit twice.

"You said you and Sherlock were old friends? I haven't met many of his friends yet. Are you, er close?" 

Michael chuckled. "We were, for a while. Not so much now. He's not an easy man to keep … entertained."

John chuckled. "Yeah, easily bored."

“Exactly, but we're still on good terms. He's a very interesting man. Y’know he once spent two whole weeks here observing who bought what type of underwear. Even made a colour-coded spreadsheet. By the end, he reckoned he could tell someone’s sexuality just from the waistband of their pants.” Michael dropped to his knees in front of John. “Just going to measure the leg now.”

“Yeah.” John was too busy trying to parse Michael’s last statement. Close for a while, not so much now, but still mat…. Oh! God he was an idiot. Sherlock and Michael had… had they? What about the whole ‘married to my work’ speech? Maybe it was just him? Or maybe John had misunderstood Michael? A glimmer of light appeared in John’s mind. The wasted hours spent lusting after his new flatmate despite his best efforts to push it away, ignore it. What if there was hope? What if …

John’s train of thought was derailed by Michael reaching in to measure his inside leg. He shifted his stance, came to attention and tried really hard not to think too much about Sherlock. He needed to clarify things a bit, though.

“When you say you and Sherlock were close, do you mean…? I mean, sorry, it's just he said something to me that gave me the impression he wasn't…”

Michael rested back on his heels, tape measure in his lap and threw back his head and laughed. “Did he give you that ‘married to his work’ line? Yeah, don’t mind that. He’s just a bit shy. He clearly likes you to have moved you in. I never got past the front door.” Michael returned to his measuring “And I can see why he likes you.” He grinned. “You are a gentleman of significance, if you don’t mind me saying so. Sorry, sorry, that was a bit unprofessional. Ignore me. I’m just a bit giddy that Sherlock has found someone. I do worry about him.”

Brain whirring, John had no response. Was there a possibility Sherlock might want more? How on earth could he broach the subject again? Maybe he should just accept things the way they were and move on. But Michael seemed to think otherwise.

“Ok, I’m all done here. Let's go and choose your fabric and some accessories. Got to have the right shirt for a new suit.” 

Back down in the main shop, John pondered the selection of beautiful fabrics laid out. None of them were priced and Michael guided him through the selection process. Once they had settled on a shade of blue, John was brought linen, wool and silk/wool blends of every shade imaginable. He selected a shade just lighter than navy with a hint of dark green in the silk that caught the light as the fabric flexed and moved.They paired it with an ivory shirt and two different ties, one aubergine and the other a rich gold.

John thought they were all done when Michael steered him towards a final display. 

“There is very much a move now for gentlemen to consider the appropriate undergarments to show off their suit to its best. The correct foundation affects how a jacket sits,” he raised an eyebrow at John, “how the trousers fit and drape, providing emphasis to our best features.”

Michael pulled out three different pairs of underwear and spread them across the top of the display’s glass counter. There were cotton boxer briefs, followed by much looser silk boxers. The final option were Hugo Boss small, finely ribbed, cotton briefs. In contrast with the first two options, both available in sensible and practical black or navy, these came in a variety of vibrant colours. John ran his hand over all three choices, enjoying the slip of the silk and the softness of the cotton boxers.

Michael leaned in. “I would suggest the briefs. They provide a neat and secure support for the larger than average gentleman.”

John nodded in agreement. “I’ll take three packs. All in red.”

Michael smiled and began to prepare the bill.

***

John had little opportunity to do more than throw his purchase on his bed. As soon as he returned to the flat, Sherlock had dragged him out on a new case. They had spent a large amount of it squashed together in the space between a very real concrete wall and a fake plasterboard wall, recording the unwitting confession of a double murderer.

Finally home, John took a long shower, trying his best to wash the smell of Sherlock off his skin. Drying off, he took up his new pants. Two packs were carefully tucked away in the back of his bottom drawer in preparation for his new suit. He opened the third pack and tried on a pair. They were certainly snug and John turned to look at his reflection in the long mirror on the back of his bedroom door. A single droplet of water fell from his hair and ran down his neck, then his collarbone. The underwear certainly highlighted his genitals, all tidily tucked up and away. He did an experimental bounce and watched carefully as nothing moved. Turning sideways, he was thrilled by his profile. He slid a hand down and carefully lifted his balls and cock, giving them an affectionate squeeze. The memory of the revelations from Michael about Sherlock mingled with those of the warmth and scent of his skin from earlier. Pressed tightly together, John had tried in vain not to press into his back and now, as he recalled the feel of Sherlock’s firm buttocks pushing back into his belly, he grew hard in his hand. 

Shifting his feet apart, John gave himself a long, slow stroke over the top of his new, scarlet pants. The softness of the cotton felt good both on his cock and palm, and his erection began to peek over the top of the waistband. 

Watching himself in the mirror, John dipped his left hand inside the underwear and pulled his cock out, pushing the fabric down to catch firmly on the underside of his balls. He studied closely as he gave himself a series of firm, slow pulls, his foreskin pulling back. As his hand sped up, John’s head was a kaleidoscope of images and sensations from the last six weeks. 

Michael had reopened a door on the hope that Sherlock had so firmly slammed shut that night in Angelo’s and John flitted from the vision of Sherlock draped over the sofa to being in full flight as they chased a suspect, the muscles of his long thighs flexing as he ran. 

John's strokes became faster now and he gazed at his reflection through half-closed eyes for as long as he could. He closed his eyes at last and threw back his head, legs shaking, sweat gathering between his pecs as his first flew over his cock. At his orgasm flooded over him, he whispered Sherlock's name.


	2. Tightly-fitted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A second origin story, this time about Sherlock and his suits. We find out more about Michael and Sherlock gets to see John in his new suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for all those who wanted to see Sherlock's reaction to John's new suit. Written for RedPantsMonday prompts on Twitter for 2 prompts; red socks and violin.

It was ludicrous. Pointless, unproductive and, at times, both physically and mentally uncomfortable. Even worse, he was proving Mycroft correct; something he went to extraordinary lengths to avoid. Sentiment. Definitely for the losing side, if only for the sheer amount of attention and energy it required.

Sherlock humphed and turned onto his side, the sofa creaking at his wild movements. He pulled his knees to his chest and dragged his long-suffering dressing gown tightly around himself, unconsciously drawing his arms around in a poor imitation of a hug.

The sudden movement caused the subject of Sherlock’s aggravated attention to look up from his journal.

“You alright?” John raised an eyebrow in Sherlock’s general direction.

No, not really. In fact not at all, and it’s all your fault. I’m lying here, supposed to be working out how a six-foot-seven, rugby playing bouncer was apparently killed by a 5 foot, 16 year old girl with just a safety pin. But, nooooo. No, what I’m actually doing is watching the pattern of illumination as it travels across your eyelashes and the way you flex your right thigh every time you turn a page. Why your thigh John? Is it that the Journal is triggering the psychosomatic pain? Or are you thinking about kicking the idiot who wrote the article? Or are you just doing it to torment me? “Fine.”

John grunted and returned to his reading. Sherlock returned to his sulking. He really was at a loss as to what to do, which only compounded his frustration. The constant fluttering in his stomach every time John entered a room or, worse again, a crime scene was exhausting. As was the distraction he created. Sherlock had found himself staring at John at the most inopportune moments, captivated by the way the man stood or moved, or the way his nose twitched when he was cross. It was untenable and Sherlock had not the first idea what he was supposed to do about it.

He was going to need help, a Consultant, as it were. Definitely, absolutely not Mycroft. What did he know of such things? No, sentiment and feelings were not Mycroft’s purlieu. Plus, Sherlock would never hear the end of it should he admit to such a weakness. Mrs. Hudson? Hmm, possibly. He would come back to that idea. Molly Hooper. Sherlock’s stomach sank. He was not quite sure why but he suspected that consulting Molly on his feelings for John was a bad idea. Lestrade? Good lord, no. Look at the disaster his own feelings for other people had resulted in. Mummy? Sherlock shuddered involuntarily. Dadd….

A beep from John’s phone interrupted the peace of 221b. Sherlock observed from beneath his eyelashes as John read the message, smiled, and then promptly blushed. Curious.

“That was Michael Lindon. My new suit is ready for collection."

Michael? Michael. Why hadn’t Sherlock thought of him sooner. He sat upright for the first time in two hours.

"Good. I'll go."

"Sher-." John tried to object but Sherlock, and his coat, had already left.

*****

Sherlock had known Michael Lindon since he was 16 and Michael 14. Lindons had been the family tailor for 3 generations and had also been an official outfitter for his boarding school. Dragged along to give his father a second opinion once Mycroft was busy working, Sherlock had been surprised, and a bit alarmed, to find a blond boy sat on top of one of the pristine wooden and glass countertops. Introduced as nephew to the owner, Michael grinned and declared himself heir to the business. As Daddy was measured and spent ages picking fabrics, the two young men discussed their futures; one on course to be a research chemist and the other already dreaming of designing suits that young men would want to wear, slim fitting with interesting colour combinations. Each time Sherlock visited, Michael would take measurements and draw designs just for him. Sherlock never asked aloud where Michael thought he would wear these beautiful suits - he fully intended to be hiding in a lab his whole life.

His Uni years did not see much need for a tailor, and the next time Sherlock and Michael bumped into one another, it was in a heaving, sweaty bar, full of men in tight trousers, no shirts and music loud enough to dislodge your brain. Sherlock was desperate, coming down from a high and keen to bring that to a swift and decisive end. As he slid to his knees on the beer-rinsed bathroom floor to make a down payment to his dealer, a firm hand gripped his arm and dragged him back to his feet. Michael had grown taller and broader than Sherlock and he found himself unceremoniously marched out of the nightclub and back to the tiny flat Michael occupied above the tailor shop.

Three days later, Sherlock had slept, washed and eaten at Michael’s insistence, and a call had been placed to Daddy who was on his way to collect him. Again. Nosing through Michael’s belongings while he was at work in the shop, Sherlock leafed through a pile of papers. He was astonished to find three drawings of someone who looked an awful lot like himself in the pile; design drawings of a curly-haired angular man in a slim-fitting dark suit, single button jacket and a dark grey shirt open at the neck. Sherlock was looking down at his grimy jeans and baggy, grey t-shirt when the shop bell heralded Daddy’s arrival. Sherlock stole one of the pictures and shoved it in his pocket as he made his way down to face the recriminations. Again.

This time the rehab helped. Sherlock went back to Uni and had almost finished his degree when he responded to a police request for the public’s help with the disappearance of a woman. Sherlock could see the clues all over the girl’s stepfather at the televised press conference and the information he provided led to the man's arrest. Two weeks later, Detective Greg Lestrade came to Sherlock again for his help, and one skip dive, two foot chases and an etched photo frame resulted in a conviction and a new career for Sherlock Holmes.

He wanted to be taken seriously by the Met and knew he needed to dress the part. He never considered anywhere but Lindons. The shop had been renovated since his last visit, a careful blend of tradition and sleek, modern lines. Michael had beamed at him and Sherlock had pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper and demanded that he be made the suit in the picture.

The fitting led to dinner and wine, chat about fashion college and unfinished chemistry degrees. A bottle of wine in and Michael confessed to a crush on Sherlock that had started that first day they had met. They walked back to 221b and had a bit of a snog on the doorstep, but Michael could tell Sherlock’s heart wasn’t in it. He left, planting a kiss on a cheekbone and calling back that Sherlock's suit would be ready in three weeks. 

The following year Michael submitted a charcoal grey suit paired with an tightly-fitted aubergine shirt and a dramatic full-length wool coat as his piece for the Final Year show, modelled by a taciturn Consulting Detective. He graduated with a First. 

*****  
The doorbell announced Sherlock’s arrival and as always, he was greeted by Jacob, Michael’s uncle. It had been nearly a year since he had last visited the shop but when Michael was summoned from the back, it might as well have been yesterday.

“Hello Sherlock. How’s things?” As always, Michael beamed. His trimmed and shaped beard was new since Sherlock had seen him last and it suited him. He came around from behind the counter to give Sherlock a brief hug.

“Good. That is… I’m here to collect John’s suit.” he tucked his hands behind his back and rocked slightly on his heels.

“I’m sorry? Sherlock Holmes is running errands for someone now? I never thought I’d see the day.” Michael tipped his head and gave Sherlock a once-over. “Alright, you. Upstairs. On the couch.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, then turned and yelled to his uncle, “We need tea, Jacob, upstairs. It's for Sherlock.”

They climbed the spiral staircase to the fitting room, where Sherlock took residence in the middle of the rococo silver and black chaise longue, crossing his legs and spreading his coat out on either side of him. Michael pulled up a matching chair.

“So, this John bloke. He seems nice.”

“Hmmm. He’s ...alright, I suppose.”

“You didn’t take long to move him in. Over night, he told me.”

“Well, yes, but we’re just-”

“Yeah, flatmates. He told me that too. That you buy bespoke suits and run errands for?”

“Hmmm.” Sherlock looked around the familiar room, deducing that the last customer to visit had been a very minor royal. He fidgeted with his hands, stroking the sofa’s black brocade.

“Welk, I like him. Former soldier and medical man, he was telling me.”

“Hmmm.” Sherlock studied Michael’s hand-made shoes, admiring the stitching.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake Sherlock! Out with it. What’s up? What’s going on with you two?”

Sherlock curled forward, elbows on knees, face in his hands and puffed out an exasperated grunt. “He’s… oh, I don’t know - got into my head! It’s ridiculous. He’s….. distracting. I keep having these …….” 

“Feelings?” Michael hazarded.

“Yes, damn it. Feelings. About John. That make me want to…” Sherlock stood up with such force that he shoved the chaise longue backwards. He made a step towards the top of the staircase only to be cut off by Jacob bringing them a tray of tea. He stomped back and plopped back down on his seat. The frustration and annoyance dissipated and he met Michael’s eyes for the first time. “What do I do, Michael? You know how useless I am at this. He is the first person to ever have this effect on me. Oh... I’m sorry, was that-?"

Michael laughed. “Don’t be daft. I’m long over you. I don’t see the problem. Why don’t you just ask him out?” He poured them both a cup of strong tea, added 3 sugars to Sherlock’s, hesitated, then put one in his own. He suspected this conversation was going to be hard work.

Sherlock groaned. “I can’t do that. Anyway. I told him I wasn’t interested, that I was-”

“Married to your work. Yeah. You really have got to stop using that line, Sherlock. It’s shit.”

“At the time, I meant it. This has sort of crept up on me.” 

“Again, why don’t you just ask him out.?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “If one were to do such a thing, where would we even go? Where could I bring him? We already live together, eat out together, work together.”

“Well, if it was me,” Michael side-eyed Sherlock whilst sipping his tea, “I’d suggest going somewhere he could wear his new suit. Which is rather fabulous, if I do say so myself.”

“Yes, yes, you’re a genius blah, blah, blah.” Sherlock dismissed him with a wave.”Hmm. I was thinking of going to see Madeline Neresvsky. She is performing a violin concerto at the Royal Albert.”

“There you go. Get some tickets, ask him out and see how things go.” 

Sherlock looked doubtful. “What if he says no? I shall have made a complete fool of myself. Then things will become embarrassingly untenable at home.”

“I have a good feeling about this, Sherlock I don’t think you need to worry too much.” As much as he would like to say something, Michael always treated the things clients told him as highly confidential. When someone trusts you enough to measure their balls, you have to guard that trust. He was pretty confident that John was mad about Sherlock, but it was not his place to say so.

“Do you really?” Sherlock’s open, anxious expression made Michael think back to that 16 year old he had first met so long ago. In a lot of ways, Sherlock was still that teenager; stroppy, moody and rude. While he may be physically experienced in sex, Michael hoped he wasn’t about to get his heart broken for the first time. 

“I really do. C’mon. Let’s go and get his suit. You have tickets to buy.”

“Yes. yes. Ok.” The men headed down to the main shop, where Michael took out a dark green box with maroon embossing. He handed it to Sherlock. “Maybe you should bring him a gift? May I recommend these?” He handed over a pair of scarlet cashmere socks. Puzzled, Sherlock handed over £50.00 and took the box. 

“Let me know how you get on.” Michael watched as Sherlock headed for the door. “And remember. He’d be lucky to have you.”

*****

Sherlock spent the next 24 hours locked in battle with himself. He was a fearsome adversary. He had dropped the suit box onto John’s lap without comment and retired to his bedroom to think. If he did ask John out, at least he would know. Would know if John reciprocated to even the smallest degree. And if he didn’t? Well, then at least Sherlock would know and could try and ignore these feelings and get on with the important things in life, like experiments and cases. 

Five minutes later he had completely changed his mind. This was the most disastrous idea ever in the history of human ideas. John would be shocked, and probably disgusted. Was he even gay? Sherlock had no idea. He had certainly been put out when Mrs. H had suggested they may only need one bedroom the night John had first called to see the flat. No. Sherlock would only drive John away. He may never see or hear from him again. Awful idea. Terrible.

But then again…

Somewhere near 4 am, Sherlock was exhausted, on edge, unable to sleep and almost on the verge of tears. The Mycroft in his head berated him for his indecision and his imaginary Mummy was at her wits end with him. Frankly, he was at his wits end with himself. 

He would do it. He would ask John out and to hell with the consequences. Reaching for his phone, he bought 2 online tickets for the following evening’s performance and promptly fell asleep for nine hours. 

*****  
Opening his eyes to bright daylight, Sherlock decided he had made a terrible decision. Shockingly poor. He would ruin everything and never see John again. John didn’t even like classical music very much, why on earth would he want to go and see a concerto? Hauling himself from his bed, wrapped in his sheet, Sherlock examined his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Face sleep-creased, curls madly pointing in all directions and dark circles under his eyes, what on earth was he thinking? Why did he think John might want him? Selfish, selfish, selfish he chastised the creature in the mirror. He went in search of tea, dragging his sheet with him. 

Kettle on, he headed to his chair, only to stop in his tracks. John stood in front of the mirror over the fireplace.

“Afternoon, sleepyhead. We need to get a full length mirror in this flat. This one is no good. Thought i’d try it on. You’re the expert, what d’ya think?”

Sherlock stared. John was wearing his new suit. It was dark blue wool silk blend with a subtle, dark green sheen as he moved back to the mirror to check his plain dark blue tie and straighten his white shirt collar. Facing Sherlock again, he struck a playful pose, one hand on his hip, aping a male model. 

Sherlock continued to stare. He was aware that he was staring. He was also aware that his breathing had become faster and a bit shallow. He stared. 

“Um, Sherlock. Yeah, wow, that’s getting a bit creepy now. What do you think of the waistcoat? I thought it was a bit much but Michael assured me it would work.” John smoothed his hands over the two parallel rows of 4 gold buttons descending the front of the waistcoat, reminiscent of a military uniform. “He said that if I stuck to the single breasted jacket, it wouldn’t come off as stuffy.” John raised his eyebrows at his transfixed flatmate. “Sherlock. Are you alright? God, I hope your not having some sort of an absence seizure.” John took a step towards Sherlock.

“S’tight.” Sherlock shook himself slightly. John was right in front of him now, understandably puzzled. “That is to say,” he cleared his throat and released a hand from his sheet and waved in John’s general direction, “Your suit. It is quite a tight fit.” Sherlock tried, but failed, not to stare at the point where the suit clung to the top of John's legs. There was a rather poorly disguised significant bulge.

John spun on the spot to once again regard himself in the mirror. He went up on his tiptoes irrespective of the fact that he would still only be able to see from his waist up. He turned back to face Sherlock. “Is it too tight? God, I haven’t seen the trousers prop- Um. Sherlock, your sheet, it’s…” John gestured down in the general direction of Sherlock’s middle. They both looked down. Sherlock’s sheet had developed a bit of a gape and the parting of the fabric revealed that Sherlock had a full, straining erection.

Oh, God, oh, God. Abort, abort! Sherlock tried to step back but John reached out and caught his arm. 

“Is that, um, for me? I mean, is that your way of trying to tell me you don’t think it’s too tight?” John gave a small smile.

No, not at all, I woke up that way, I’m so sorry. Oh, that, not it's just a reaction to my….. tea. Purely physical. Apologies John, it was merely the friction of my sheet. “Hnnng,” replied Sherlock. Oh, God, shoot me now.

John stepped forward. He placed his other hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and drew him in close. Leaning into his ear, he whispered, “I’d like to show you something, if that's alright?” He pulled back to gaze up at Sherlock, who nodded in response. John took Sherlock’s right wrist and guided his hand, palm first, to his own sizeable bulge. Sherlock was greeted by the incontrovertible presence of a very hard, very well dressed, cock inside John’s new suit. He groaned.

“Please tell me we can do something about these?” John pleaded. “Please tell me I’m not misunderstanding here.”

Sherlock surged forwards, crowding up into John, eyes roaming over his chest and shoulders. He slid his hands over John’s hips and down to his exquisitely tailored arse. Squeezing with both hands, he pulled them even more tightly together before placing a single, soft kiss on John’s lips.

Breathless, John panted, “Fucking hell, you sexy bastard,” and proceeded to pull Sherlock down into a searing, filthy snog that left them both panting. Stepping away, but never breaking eye contact, Sherlock dropped his sheet to the floor. Once again, he took John in his arms, then spread his legs so that his torso slid slowly down John’s chest and belly, revelling in the feel of the smooth fabric and the warm strength of John’s muscles below. He flicked open one, then a second, button on the waistcoat.

“I think," he purred into John’s ear, “That as much as I adore you in this, we had better take it off. I would hate to make a mess on it.”

John removed his jacket and carefully folded it over the back of his chair. As he kissed Sherlock, he made short work of his remaining waistcoat buttons, while long fingers opened the top button of his trousers, and began to slide them down. As he stepped out of them, Sherlock slid his hands up underneath the white shirt, stroking and circling John’s nipples. It took John longer than it should have to unbutton the shirt. 

Finally, he stood in front of Sherlock in nothing but his scarlet underwear and matching red socks.

“How did you know to bring red socks?” he panted into Sherlock’s ear. 

“I didn’t. They were Michael’s suggestion. And an excellent one." He reached forward, slowly running his hand over John’s balls, up his jerking cock which pulsed in the tight, red pants and with a single finger, swiped a drop of pre-come from the head that rose above the waist band. John’s head fell back with a long, drawn out groan of pleasure. Sherlock took a small step back and admired the view for a long moment, before taking John by the hand and leading him to the sofa.

Sherlock sprawled in his favourite spot, pulling John down on top of him. Now aligned more equally, John frotted once, twice, against Sherlock’s cock, bending low to kiss and nip his way up Sherlock’s neck. It occurred to Sherlock that a lot had changed in the 24 hours since he had last lain on this sofa, pining, for that was undoubtedly what he had been doing, for John.

He was derailed by John reaching back and pushing off his red pants and dropping them to the floor. Sparks of pleasure and lust coursed through him as John brought their bare cocks together in his hand, just holding, not moving. 

“Sher-” he panted. “I just. Before we go any further. I- Oh, fuck!” Sherlock had rolled his hips gently, introducing much needed friction. “What I’m trying to say, is, is… this is not just sex, for me. It's much more, and I really hope-”

Sherlock cut off the end of that sentence, determined to allow his actions to speak for him. He kissed John speechless and wrapped his own hand around John’s. With his other arm wrapped around John’s back, he began to move his hand until they both lost all control, hands flying faster and faster until Sherlock came with a shout, shortly followed by John, keening into Sherlock’s shoulder.

As their breathing calmed, John reached down for his underpants to clean up some of the mess they had made. 

“Yes, John.” Sherlock murmured. 

“Hmmm?” 

“Much, much more for me too.” 

“Thas’ good.” John was still catching his breath.

“Yes. In fact, I was going to ask you out on a date this evening.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Do you like the violin? I thought we could go to a concert?”

“Yeah, sounds nice. I could wear my new suit.”

Sherlock very much hoped he would.

"Oh. And John?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think we might do this again sometime?"

"Bloody hope so."

"Good. It's just. Next time. Would you, um -"

"What? Tell me?"

"Would you very much mind removing your socks?"


End file.
